CHAPTER I.
The sun had not yet risen. Over Vesuvius lay a broad grey sweep of mist, which spread itself out towards Naples, and overshadowed the little towns along the coast. The sea was tranquil, but on the Marina, which is situate in a narrow inlet under the high Torrentine cliffs; fishermen and their wives were already busied, dragging in with stout ropes the net boats, which had been fishing at sea during the night. Others cleaned up their boats, shook out the sails, and brought oars and spars out of the great railed vaults, cut deep in the rock, in which they kept their tackle at night. No one was idle. For even the old people, who were no longer able to go to sea, ranged themselves amongst the long rows of those who drew the nets, and here and there there stood an old woman with her distaff on one of the flat roofs, or took care of the children, whilst her daughter helped her husband at his work.
"Look there, Rachella! there is our padre, Eurato," said an old woman, to a little thing of ten years old, who swung its little spindle by her side; "He has just stepped into the boat. Antonino is going to take him over to Capri. Maria Santissima! how sleepy the holy man looks still!" and therewith she waved her hand towards a kindly looking little priest, who had seated himself cautiously in a boat below her, having first carefully raised his black coat and spread it over the seat. The people on the shore paused in their work to see their padre start, who nodded and greeted them kindly right and left.
"Why must he go to Capri, grandmother?" asked the child. "Have the people over there got no priest of their own that they are obliged to borrow ours?"
"Do not be so silly," answered the old woman, "They have plenty of priests, and beautiful churches, and a hermit too--which we have not. But there is a noble signora there, who stopped once a long time here at Lorento, and was so ill that the padre was often obliged to carry her the Hoste, when she did not think that she should live through the night. Well, the Holy Virgin helped her, and she got strong and well again, and was able to bathe every day in the sea. When she went from here to go over to Capri, she left a pretty heap of ducats behind for the Church and the poor people, and said that she would not go until our padre promised to visit her over there, that she might confess to him, for it is wonderful how fond she is of him; and we may bless ourselves that we have a padre who has gifts like an archbishop, and who is asked after by all the great people. The Madonna be with him." And therewith she nodded down towards the boat which was just putting off.
"Shall we have fine weather, my son?" asked the little priest, looking thoughtfully towards Naples.
"The sun is not up yet," answered the young man; "It will soon scatter that bit of fog when it rises."
"So, let us start at once, and avoid the heat." Antonino was in the act of grasping the long oar, in order to push off the boat, when he suddenly checked himself, and looked up towards the steep path which led from the little town of Lorento, down towards the Marina.
A slender girlish form was visible above, tripping hastily over the rough stones, and waving a handkerchief She carried a small bundle under her arm, and was poorly enough dressed; yet she had an almost noble, though rather wild way of throwing her head back on her shoulders, and the black tresses which she wore twined round her forehead decked her like a coronet.
"What are we waiting for?" asked the little priest.
"There is some one coming down who wants to go to Capri. If you will permit it, padre, we shall not go the slower, for it is only a young girl, hardly eighteen."
Just as he spoke the girl appeared round the end of the wall which bordered the winding path. "Lauretta!" cried the padre, "what can she want in Capri?"
Antonino shrugged his shoulders. The girl approached with hasty steps, looking straight before her.
"Good day! La Rabbiata!" cried some of the young sailors. They might indeed have said more if the proximity of their padre had not kept them a little in order, for the short defiant manner with which the girl received their greetings seemed to irritate them vastly.
"Good day, Lauretta!" cried the padre, "how goes it with you? Do you want to go over to Capri with us?"
"If you will permit me, padre."
"You must ask Antonino there. He is the patron of the boat. Every one is master of his own, and God of us all."
"Here is a half Carolus," said Lauretta, without looking at the young boatman, "can I go over for it?"
"You may want it more than I;" murmured Antonino, and moved some baskets filled with oranges on one side to make room. He was going to sell them at Capri, for the rocky islet does not produce enough for its numerous visitors.
"I will not go with you for nothing." said the girl; and the dark eyebrows drew together.
"Come, my child." said the padre, "he is an honest young fellow, and does not want to get rich from your poverty; there--step in," and he reached her his hand, "and seat yourself near me. See there! He has spread his jacket for you that you may sit the softer. He was not half so thoughtful of me. But young blood! young blood! It is always so! They will take more care of one little girl, then of ten holy fathers."
"Well, well! you need not make any excuses, 'Tonino; it is God's law that like should cling to like."
In the mean time, Lauretta had slipped into the boat, and seated herself, first pushing the jacket on one side without saying a word. The young fisherman let it be, and muttered something between his teeth. Then he pushed stoutly against the beach, and the little bark flew lightly out into the bay.
"What have you got in your bundle?" asked the padre, as they swept over the sea, just beginning to be freckled with the first sunbeams.
"Thread, silk, and a little loaf, padre, I am going to sell the silk to a woman in Capri, who makes ribbons, and the thread to another."
"Did you spin it yourself?"
"Yes, padre."
"If I remember rightly, you have learned to weave ribbons too?"
"Yes, padre, but my mother is so much worse, that I cannot leave her for long at a time; and we are too poor to buy a loom."
"Much worse! Dear, dear, when I saw her at Easter, she was sitting up."
"The spring is always the worst time for her. Since we had the great storm and the earthquake, she has been obliged to keep her bed from pain."
"Don't weary of prayers and supplications to the Holy Virgin, my child,--she alone can help her. And be good and industrious, that your prayers may be heard."
After a pause. "As you came across the beach, they called after you, 'Good day, La Rabbiata.' Why do they call you so? It is not a pretty name for a Christian girl, who ought to be humble and gentle."
The girl's brown face glowed, and her eyes sparkled.
"They laugh at me, because I will not dance and sing and gossip, like the others. They might let me go my own way. I do them no harm."
"But you might be friendly with every one. Others, who lead easier lives may dance and sing; but kindly words may be given even by a sorrowful heart."
She looked steadily down, and drew the black eyebrows still closer together, as if she wished to shroud the dark eyes entirely under them. For a while they, voyaged on in silence. The sun now stood glorious over the mountains. The peak of Vesuvius ranged high over the bank of mist which still wrapped its flanks, and the houses on the plains of Lorento gleamed whitely from amongst the green orange gardens.
"Have you never heard any thing more of that painter, Lauretta," asked the padre, "that Neapolitan, who wanted to marry you?"
She shook her head.
"He wanted to paint your picture--why did you drive him away?"
"Why did he want it? There are plenty prettier than I. And then, who knows what he might have done with it? He might have bewitched me with it, and endangered my soul, or even have killed me, my mother says."
"Don't believe such wicked things," said the padre, gravely, "Are you not always in the hand of God, without whose permission not a hair can fall from your head? And do you think that a man with a poor picture like that can be stronger than the Lord God? You might have seen that he wished you well. Would he have wanted you to marry him if he had not?"
She was silent.
"Then why did you send him away? They said that he was an honest man and well to do, and could have kept you and your mother in comfort. Much more so than you can do now with your poor spinning and silk-weaving."
"We are poor people." she said, impetuously. "And my mother has been ill a long time. We should only have been a burden to him; and I am not fit to be a signora. When his friends came to see him, he would have been ashamed of me."
"What nonsense! I tell you that he was a good man, and, moreover, he was willing to settle in Lorento. Another like him will not come again in a hurry; he seemed sent straight from heaven to assist you."
"I will never have a husband, never!" she said almost fiercely, and as if to herself.
"Have you taken a vow, or do you intend to enter a cloister?"
She shook her head.
"The people are right in accusing you of obstinacy, even if the name be not a pretty one. Do you forget that you are not alone in the world, and that this resolution of yours makes your sick mother's life and illness still more bitter? What possible grounds can you have for casting aside each honest hand which stretches itself out to assist you and her? Answer me, Lauretta?"
"I have, indeed, good grounds," she said, low and hesitatingly, "but I cannot tell them."
"Not tell them? not even to me? not even to your old father confessor, whom you used to trust, and who you know means so well towards you? Will you?"
She nodded.
"So, lighten your heart, my child. If you are in the right, I will be the first to do you right; but you are young, and know but little of the world, and you might repent by-and-by at having ruined your happiness for life for the sake of a childish fancy."
She cast a shy, rapid glance towards the young man, who sat rowing steadily behind them in the boat, with his woollen cap plucked deeply over his brows, gazing sideways at the sea, and seemingly lost in his own reflections. The padre observed her glance, and bent his head nearer to her.
"You did not know my father," she whispered, and her eyes gleamed darkly.
"Your father! he died, if I remember rightly, when you were hardly ten years old. What can your father, whose soul may be in Paradise, have to do with your caprice?"
"You did not know him, padre: you did not know that he was the cause of all my mother's illness."
"How so?"
"Because he ill-treated her, and beat her, and trampled her under his feet! I remember the night well when he used to come home in a rage! She never said an angry word to him--did all that he wished; but he beat her till I thought my heart would have broken, and used to draw the coverlid over my head, and pretend to be asleep, but cried all the night through. And when he saw her lying on the floor, he changed suddenly, and raised her up, and kissed her, till she cried that he was suffocating her. My mother forbad me ever to say a word about it. But it had such an effect upon her, that she has never been well all these long years since he has been dead; and if she should die soon, which the Madonna forbid, I know well who killed her."
The little priest shook his head, and seemed undecided as to what extent he should justify his penitent. At last he said,
"Forgive him, as your mother has forgiven him. Do not fasten your thoughts on that sad picture, Lauretta. Better times will come for you, and you will forget all this."
"Never shall I forget it," she cried, shuddering; "and I tell you, padre, that I will remain a maiden, and be subject to no one who may ill-treat me one moment and caress me the next. If any one tries to strike me or to kiss me now, I know how to defend myself; but my mother could not defend herself, or ward off the blows or the kisses, because she loved him; and I will love no one so much as to give him the power of making me ill and miserable."
"Now, are you not a child, talking as a child, and knowing nothing of what happens in the world? Are all men like your father, giving way to every fancy and ill-humour, and beating their wives? Have you not seen kind-hearted men enough who live in peace and unity with their wives?"
"No one knew either how my father treated my mother, for she would have died a thousand times rather than have said any thing, or complained of him, and all because she loved him. If that is what love does, closing one's lips when one should cry for help, and disarming one against worse than one's worst enemy could do, never shall my heart entrust itself to a man's keeping."
"I tell you that you are a child, and do not know what you are talking about. Much this heart of yours will ask you whether it is to love or not when its time is come! All those fine fancies you have got into that little head won't help you much then! And that painter, did you also inform him that you expected him to ill-treat you?"
"His eyes looked sometimes as my father's used to do when he caressed my mother, and wanted to take her in his arms and make friends with her--I know those eyes! A man can give that look, too, who can think of beating his poor wife, who has never done him ill. I shuddered when I saw those eyes again."
Then she remained obstinately silent The padre, too, did not speak. He ran over in his mind many pretty speeches, which he thought might suit the girl's case; but the neighbourhood of the young fisherman, who had become more restless towards the end of the confession, closed his mouth.
When, after a voyage of two hours, they gained the little harbour of Capri, Antonino bore the padre from the boat, over the last shallow waves, and placed him respectfully upon the shore; but Lauretta would not wait until he waded back to fetch her; she drew her clothes together, and taking her shoes in one hand and her bundle in the other, splashed hastily to the shore.
"I am going to stop some time at Capri to-day," said the padre, "so you need not wait for me; possibly I may not return home till to-morrow. And you, Lauretta, remember me to your mother; I shall see you again this week. You are going back to-night?"
"If I have an opportunity," said the girl, arranging her dress.
"You know that I must go back," said Antonino, in what he intended as a tone of indifference; "I will wait for you till the Ave Maria; if you do not come then, it will be all the same to me."
"You must be in time, Lauretta," said the little priest; "you must not leave your mother alone all night. Is it far where you are going?"
"To Anacapri."
"And I to Capri. God guard you, my child! and you, my son!"
Lauretta kissed his hand, and said a farewell, which the padre and Antonino might have divided between them. Antonino, however, did not claim his share of it; he took off his cap to the padre, and did not look at Lauretta.
When, however, they had both turned their backs upon him, he permitted his glance to follow the padre as he strode carefully up the stony beach, but for a very short distance, and then directed it to the girl, who was mounting the hill to the right, holding his hand over his eyes to shade them from the bright sun. When she reached the place where the road begins to run between the walls, she paused for a moment, as if to take breath, and turned round. The Marina lay at her feet, above her towered the steep cliffs, and before her spread the sea in all its azure beauty. It was, indeed, a view well worth the pause.
Chance so willed it that her glance, sweeping past Antonino's boat, encountered the one which he had sent after her. They both made a movement, like persons who wish to excuse themselves--"a mere matter of accident;" and then the girl continued her way with closely-compressed lips.